Bitter

Harry Potter was seated in front of the fire in the living room of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, staring into the flames, left hand resting on the arm of his chair, right hand clutching a glass half full of a dark amber liquid that was slightly smoking. Firewhisky on the rocks. The clash between scalding heat and ice served to make Harry's nightly process of drinking himself into a stupor more interesting. The only sound in the room was the clink of ice against the glass as Harry's hand shook slightly. This might have been the result of being exposed to the Cruciatus curse during his teens. It could also be the result of a few possibly questionable hangover potions he'd been given over the years. Or the definitely questionable recreational potions he'd ingested during his Bad Years. Or maybe...

A man of only 24 years should not have a lengthy list of possible reasons his hands shake. Shaking hands are for old men, not young wizards in the prime of their life. Definately not for Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, defeater of the Dark Lord, The Boy-Who-Didn't-Fucking-Die-When-He-Had-The-Chance, oh no, I had to keep on going didn't I, because this is WAY better then life was when Voldemort was around, sitting in my bloody house, no job, no purpose, some fucking thanks I get...

To say he was bitter could possibly be the understatement of the century. One would think that if you're going to be forced to save the world before you turn 18 that people might actually want you around. They might even want to hire you. Nope. Harry soon realized that after fulfilling the prophecy and killing He-Who-Can-Kiss-My-Ass (as Harry referred to the late Lord Voldemort these days), his usefulness was spent. Those who didn't fear his power feared the retribution of lingering Death Eaters and after a year of futile attempts at regaining self-worth, Harry went on a whirlwind adventure around the world. At least he thinks he went around the world. The stretch of time between June of 1999 to around the Christmas of 2003 are a blur to say the least. The Bad Years. It is assumed that years one spends in a drugged haze and then doesn't remember afterwards are bad. The first thing after that period Harry can recall is apparating entirely too long a distance under the heavy influence of... well, under the influence of something and landing, miraculously whole, in the middle of an oily puddle outside of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place on a cold December morning. Then he remembers crawling into a bed and sleeping for at least a week. Then he crawled out of the bed and into a Firewhisky bottle and has been living there quite happily ever since.

Noticing that his glass was empty, Harry vanished the ice that was taking up space that could be better filled with more alcohol and refilled his glass. He resumed his study of the fire. Without the clinking of the ice the clock seemed deafening.

An owl was rapping its beak against the window. This was different. Nearly a year had passed since Harry had returned to England and this was the first owl he had recieved. He stood and strode over to the window and let in a large Tawny Owl. It dropped a letter addressed in emerald ink with a scarlet seal on the table and soared back out of the window. Harry picked up the envelope and looked at the familiar seal of a lion, eagle, badger and snake around a capital H. He slit open the envelope and slowly read his letter.

A teacher? They want me to teach. They would put children under my instruction? They want me to be in partial control of the wizarding world's future leaders? They're insane.

A malevolent grin creeped on to Harry's face. They want Harry Potter? They'll get Harry Potter and they won't know what hit 'em.

I don't think this will go any further. I just wanted to write a Bitter!Harry piece because I'm feeling a bit bitter myself and everything else I've written was a bit fluffy for the moment.